


the fires in the rooms were already out

by gentyjack



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1800s Russia, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, M/M, No Betas We Fall Like Crowley, Pre-Relationship, Touch-Starved, mentions of labor camps, op doesn't know russian, touch repulsed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 08:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20671982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentyjack/pseuds/gentyjack
Summary: Siberia, 1847"Crowley had been a serpent, and with that came some disadvantages. For example: his eyes had slitted pupils, forcing him to cover them with dark lenses so as not to blow his cover on Earth. He tended to walk with a slithery gait, almost as if he had not gotten used to having so many joints in areas other than his skull. And while his human form was not exactly cold blooded, it certainly did not react well to colder temperatures."After a bad reaction with the cold, Crowley has an odd epiphany.





	the fires in the rooms were already out

**Author's Note:**

> my brain, before writing fic: hey wouldn't it be gr8 if aziraphale and crowley had to cuddle for warmth?   
me: haha yea   
my brain, while writing fic: hey wouldn't it be gr8 if you turned this into a projection fic about what it's like to be simultaneously touch starved and touch repulsed?   
me: haha, Nah. 
> 
> too bad 
> 
> see the bottom for russian translations

**Siberia, December 1847 **

“ Vot. Voda teplaya,” Aziraphale spoke soothingly to the man warming himself by the fire. Bluish fingers accepted the cup with thanks, breathing in the steam that emanated from the warm liquid. The angel’s Russian was rusty at best, so he could only hope that by saying “warm water,” the prisoner could gather he meant tea. Though he supposed in the end it hardly mattered, a warm drink was a warm drink.

(It turned out the Russian word for tea was in fact chay. Aziraphale couldn’t chide himself for forgetting....not in this place.) 

It wasn’t merely an assignment that sent him to Nerchinsky Zavod. Gabriel had mentioned to him that perhaps some small blessings would do some good to Eastern Europe, to ease some tensions that had been long since building. Aziraphale was certain he had been meant to remain in the capital, but his feet led him further and further east. Something was calling to him: the cries of those suffering. And that...that he simply could not ignore. 

What he wasn’t expecting was to run into Crowley east of St. Petersburg. It had been mid-November, the cool chill of Autumn really beginning to give way to the sharp cold of winter. The demon had been all smiles when he saw him, though the tense way he held himself was telling that something was bothering him. 

_ “ _ _ Kak ty, angel?” Crowley asked, grinning from ear to ear. Unlike Aziraphale, the demon’s Russian was immaculate, given his ease with using colloquialisms and slang. Aziraphale sighed as he tried to get his head to translate a response quick enough.  _

_ “Khorosho. Kak dela?” It was a rather beginner response, a simple ‘fine, and you?’ Leave it to Crowley to shake things up.  _

_ “Poka ne rodila,” Crowley said with a laugh while Aziraphale’s eyes widened in surprise.  _

_ “I should hope not!” The angel replied, clearly too in shock to attempt a response in Russian. Though as Crowley kept laughing it became obvious that the phrase was a joke...or some strange phrase only the locals knew. “Now when you’re quite finished, I suppose you’ll tell me what it is you’re doing here?”  _

_ “I’m...spreading forment?” Crowley said with a shrug, thankfully in English. Aziraphale couldn’t help but chuckle a bit at the familiar words, remembering back to another time they were said, in another damp place. “Nah, I popped in to see the whole ‘City of White Nights’ that everyone was talking about, and it turns out I missed the mark by a few months.” The angel had read about that phenomenon many years ago, how at some points in the year the sun would never set in St. Petersburg for days at a time. He recalled this only happening during summer months, however, meaning Crowley had missed the mark by about five months exactly.  _

_ “Figured that thousands of sleep deprived people would be easy to tempt,” Crowley continued. “But that’s neither here nor there. What are  _ you  _ doing here, Aziraphale?”  _

_ “I am actually on the way to Siberia,” he admitted, a sad smile gracing his lips. “Not quite certain what it is I’m going to do there, but I feel a sort of pull leading me east. I’ve heard tell of these...camps. Where they send prisoners to mine silver. I have a feeling that’s where I’m to go.” The demon gave him an odd look at that, though it was always hard to tell what he was thinking wearing those sunglasses.  _

_ “I’ve never been to Siberia,” Crowley said, almost like an afterthought. A request. A silent question. ‘Do you need me to come,’ it said. ‘Can you handle this on your own,’ it said. It was a shame that Aziraphale couldn’t read his thoughts, as the intent seemed lost on him.  _

_ “Yes well,” the angel started. “I’ve heard it gets rather brisk at this time of year.”  _

Crowley winced as another violent shiver wracked through his body.  _ Brisk,  _ he thought. Add that to the list of understatements of the year. Of course it was the demon’s own fault for tagging along; it wasn’t as if he had to be in this barren frozen wasteland. One sad smile, one damned sad smile, and suddenly he was off doing favors for the angel again. He grimaced as he remembered having made Hamlet (a dreadful bore if you asked him) one of Shakespeare’s more popular plays simply because Aziraphale gave him  _ A Look. _

Worse in this case, as the favor was clearly never even asked. Crowley just assumed, as he was wont to do, that  _ perhaps  _ Aziraphale could use the help for this job. And if the demon so happened to make several guards abandon their posts, which allowed prisoners to escape to better populated areas, well...unfortunate side effects tended to happen to the best of temptations. 

He folded his arms tight to his chest, hoping to appear nonchalant, while really trying to hold in the remaining warmth his useless body had left. Crowley had been a serpent, and with that came some disadvantages. For example: his eyes had slitted pupils, forcing him to cover them with dark lenses so as not to blow his cover on Earth. He tended to walk with a slithery gait, almost as if he had not gotten used to having so many joints in areas other than his skull. And while his human form was not exactly cold blooded, it certainly did not react well to colder temperatures. 

While most humans could bundle up as the air got crisp and their natural body heat would warm them, Crowley had nothing of the sort. His body ran naturally cold, and thus could only be heated up by external means. How many jackets he had on made no difference. How many times he shivered made no difference. There was no heat to trap. 

“I know you have a reputation to maintain,” Crowley jumped as the angel interrupted his despondency. “However, I was really hoping you could lend a hand here and there.” Aziraphale held up a steaming cup. “Tea?” Crowley accepted it eagerly with a nod, taking a small amount of comfort from the warmth it gave. 

“Vodka would be nice about now, if I’m being honest,” he said, trying not to sound testy...and failing. “Though it’ll do for now.” He willed his hands not to shake as he lifted the mug to his lips, not caring if the water would burn them. 

“I’m afraid that getting drunk was not at the forefront of my mind,” Aziraphale said, sounding equally as testy. Though Crowley knew it was not due to the cold, or even due to the demon’s own attitude. Aziraphale looked positively weary here, the dredges of human suffering taking a toll on his normally cheery facade. In fact, Crowley was almost certain that getting drunk was closer to the forefront of the angel’s mind than he wanted to admit. 

Crowley could hardly blame him. After all, though he was a demon, he wasn’t heartless. He pitied these lost men, dragging their feet through piles of snow, using the remaining strength they had to dig ores out of solid rock. They were forced into exile, torn from the life they knew and condemned to an eternity of suffering. 

It was all too familiar. 

Crowley had been to hell. But until  Nerchinsky Zavod, he had not felt further from God’s grace. 

“Pozhaluysta, gospoda,” a man approached them both, eyes desperate and pleading. He spoke in rapid Russian to Aziraphale, who appeared more and more frazzled by the minute. He could grasp what the prisoner was saying, though it was hard to tell completely under Aziraphale’s pleas for him to slow down. Crowley stopped the two of them with a gesture, walking stiffly to the begging man and handed him the mug of tea. 

“Vot,” he said softly. “Budet i na nashey ulitse prazdnik.” The man’s eyes lit up with gratitude, and he began thanking the demon profusely. Crowley attempted to wave him off, but this only encouraged the prisoner to grasp his wrist tightly. 

Crowley shuddered at the sudden contact. He felt almost burned by it, though it didn’t hurt. It just felt...wrong. Like it shouldn’t be happening to him; not here, not now, not by this man clearly holding onto him in thanks and reverence. 

When was the last time he had been touched like this? When was the last time he had been touched at all? He racked his brain, surely there had been a time in the past where he felt the grasp of another person. A greeting, a handshake, a simple accidental brush would be sufficient! But nothing came to mind...and it terrified him. 

He tore his wrist from the man’s grasp, stepping back to put as much distance between them as he could. Thankfully the man in his jubilation didn’t seem to notice that the gesture was unwanted, as he once more thanked Crowley profusely and walked off with the steaming mug. The demon was left shivering again, though if it was due to the lack of warmth on his fingers or the lingering feeling on his wrist he couldn’t tell. 

“That was very kind of you,” Aziraphale said after what seemed like an endless silence. Crowley didn’t have the energy to argue about it, a simple grumble would suffice. 

“It was tepid anyway.” 

  
  


As the sun began to fully set into the horizon, Crowley checked his pocket watch. 3:15 PM.  _ 3:15 PM.  _ He had half a mind to go to the Almighty and give Her a piece of his mind (these thoughts were dashed as quickly as they formed. She would never answer his call). The demon shook as the one true source of heat left the sky, leaving nothing but the cold moon and the stars he had once created, much too far away now to provide any warmth. 

He had been struggling to keep himself from shaking for hours, and frankly he was exhausted. His entire upper body was tense, which somehow was a more tiring position to hold than simply letting his lank form shiver. The inside of his nose and mouth stung with cold due to his long deep breaths. In fact, his lips were completely numb at the moment. That happened to human bodies when they got cold right? Nothing to worry about. 

Meanwhile Aziraphale seemed right as rain, the only signs of the cold showing with the dusts of pink on his nose and cheeks. Crowley made a disgruntled noise at the sight. The last thing he needed at the moment was to be pitied by the angel because he didn’t react to the cold as well. Or worse, be nagged by him. Oh Crowley could hear Aziraphale now:  _ “Well why did you choose to tag along then if you were going to be miserable?”  _ As if Crowley had a choice. 

(He did. His heart made him believe he didn’t.) 

Still, it was getting harder to hold his body taught, especially with the loss of the sun. He let himself relax his muscles slowly one by one. They reacted immediately. First his fingers, which he could hardly feel. Second his arms and shoulders. His torso, neck, head. Every single part of him shook, quickly and seemingly without end. Perhaps that had been a mistake. 

A warm hand touched his shoulder, and Crowley violently pulled away from it on instinct. Wild eyes scanned for the person who laid a hand on him again, hoping to  _ someone  _ it wasn’t that man from earlier for his sake. Instead he saw Aziraphale, eyeing him with concern. 

No. That was worse. 

“Are you alright, Crowley?” It was hard to tell with the combination of the dark sky and his own dark shades, but Crowley could see Aziraphale’s blue eyes betrayed something. Though what it was the demon couldn’t fathom, not in this state. He settled for somewhere between worried and annoyed. 

“M’fine….” He had hoped for that to come out more eloquently. Perhaps saying a few more words would help his case? “Sssss’jus’cold. Thas’all.” It did not help at all. 

“My word,” Aziraphale said with a laugh. There was a reaction that was unexpected. “Did you manage to find some vodka after all? You sound absolutely sozzled.” Now that was concerning. Was his speech really slurring that much? It was hard to tell. His head was spinning. 

“Nah m’jussss….tired. I ssshould...hea’off…..” Crowley turned tail, disoriented. Where was “off”? Everything looked the same, patches of white snow everywhere, which patch was the patch that led to warmth, they all looked the same, everything was spinning. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice was calm, but it wasn’t hard to pick out the slight edge that came with it. “The camp is this way.” The angel pointed to the left, right? Left. “Are you sure you’re alright?” 

“Loss’m’bearin’s…..” It was getting worse, even  _ he  _ couldn’t tell what he was saying. He just hoped that some of it was intelligible enough for Aziraphale to understand. “B’yushkee byu…” Crowley turned, only for his foot to catch on....something. Perhaps it was a stubborn patch of snow, or a rock; but either way he lost his balance and tumbled into the firm snow beneath him. It would be comfy...if it weren’t so wet and cold. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale shouted, running over to check on the other man laying face first in the snow. “What on earth has gotten into you?” He placed a gloved hand on the back of Crowley’s shoulder, wincing as the demon emitted a pathetic whine in response. Crowley’s back arched, as if seeking the touch of Aziraphale’s hand, but his eyebrows were knitted together in an obvious sign of discomfort. “You’re as cold as ice, my dear boy! Why didn’t you say anything?” 

Crowley had many things on the tip of his tongue he wanted to say in response. Because he didn’t want to hear the lecture. Because he didn’t want to make the angel worry. Because he didn’t really know how bad it could get. But all his muddled brain could manage was “mmph….” 

“We need to get you indoors, quickly. If we’re lucky, one of the stoves will be available but we’ll have to hurry.” Aziraphale leaned down to grip under Crowley’s arms, but the demon cried out again. No, he could get up himself, just give him a minute, he doesn’t need help,  _ please don’t touch me.  _ “Crowley,” the angel sighed exasperated. “If you don’t either get up soon or let me help we’ll  _ both  _ freeze to death out here.” 

Shaking arms pushed the rest of his body off the ground, though it was worrying to note that the shaking was slower now, less consistent. His body was giving out slowly, but hanging on for as long as it could. Crowley stood, albeit unsteadily, and willed his feet to move. With enough imagination he could pretend that he was in Mayfair, perhaps even St. James’ Park, meandering through the green paths without a care in the world. With enough imagination he could pretend he wasn’t slowly succumbing to the cold. 

Aziraphale trailed behind, lifting a hand to spot him. But every time he laid a hand on the demon’s back, simply to support him, Crowley would flinch and wriggle out of his grasp. Was he hurting him in some way? “Crowley, I’m afraid that you’ll keel over at any second. Let me just--” 

“M’fine!!” It was the most coherent he sounded in awhile, though still a bit slurred. He could walk on his own, he didn’t need any assistance or support. 

_ Please…please if you touch me I don’t think I could bear it. _

Whatever argument Aziraphale had died on his tongue. If they kept having this back and forth, they would never make it inside. The last thing the two of them needed was to be inconveniently discorporated and have to explain to head office what they were doing in east Russia in the first place. He would have to settle for keeping a short but comfortable distance between the two of them. It was easy at that point...they had been doing that for years. 

“Just...try not to fall, alright?” The angel said, solemnly. Crowley snorted.    
  


“T’late f’that, angel….” 

  
  


They weren’t lucky unfortunately. 

By the time the two of them had trudged across what seemed like the entire northern tundra, all the prisoners had taken seats as close to the stove as they could. There was no moving these men, they had worked hard for hours in the freezing cold and deserved this warmth as much as the other two did. Aziraphale gazed at his companion, noting that being out of the wind was doing him some good as a little color returned to his face. But judging by how lethargic Crowley still looked, it clearly wasn’t enough. 

“Come on. Let’s see if we can find some blankets to pile on you. That should help right?” Aziraphale asked, trying to drag his companion further into the depths of the camp. Crowley slurred something completely unintelligible, staring wistfully at the fire...so close and yet so far away. “What was that, Crowley?” The demon blinked a couple times, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it. It just made him more dizzy. 

“Said it...won’make much’a difference,” Crowley repeated. “Need warmth t’trap...don’got any.” Another violent shiver wracked his body. It was good that his body was attempting to warm itself again, but at this point it was just painful. 

That didn’t stop Aziraphale from trying, practically shoving Crowley into a cot and wrapping him with blanket after blanket. “Is that doing anything? Anything at all?” Crowley shook his head. He was no less cold, though now he felt more confined. Aziraphale paced, nervously rambling, trying to remember if he read about this in a book at all. “There must be something we can do!” 

Crowley curled in on himself, breaths coming shallower and slower. He was going to die. On a cot. In Siberia. It certainly wasn’t on his top five list of “ways to leave this mortal coil” but it wasn’t as if he had much of a choice at the moment. Perhaps if he laid just so he could make it go quicker. Just slow his breathing even further, close his eyes, focus on how cold he was. 

But he wasn’t cold. All of a sudden he was warm. Very, very warm. 

Was this what dying was like? He hadn’t discorporated in quite awhile, and the last had been so quick he hardly noticed. Discorporating from the cold was a very new sensation, and if he gets to feel the warmest he’s ever felt before his soul took one more freestyle dive...perhaps it was worth it. He could die this death a thousand times to feel like this. 

That is until, for some unknown reason, he opened his eyes. 

Aziraphale had wrapped his arms around the lithe demon, holding him close to his own chest. He was rubbing small circles into Crowley’s back, hoping the friction would add warmth along with his own body heat. The form beneath him began to shake again, and the angel took it as a good sign. If the body was shivering, it meant it was trying to raise the temperature. 

But it wasn’t all shivering. It was wriggling, it was writhing, it was trying desperately to get out of his grasp. Aziraphale held firm, his tone resolute as he attempted to reason with Crowley. “For heaven’s sake, hold still! Do you want to discorporate?” The angel couldn’t help but shout a bit at the demon. He was frustrated beyond belief; what was going on that Crowley couldn’t tell him? 

The shaking would not stop, no no this wasn’t happening. Aziraphale was not holding onto him, the angel was  _ not  _ the source of this pleasant warmth seeping through his body. He couldn’t be, this wasn’t true, this was not happening, why would it be happening, he didn’t  _ deserve  _ this-- 

There it was. 

The epiphany long thought lost to Crowley’s muddled mind. 

It wasn’t the touch that was bothering him. It was the intent. The man from earlier...held his wrist in gratitude, in thanks. Thanks towards a demon, who clearly wasn’t worthy of thanks. Thanks was for Her, Her and Her servants. And he had been cast out long ago, no longer deserving of thanks, no longer deserving of forgiveness. 

And Aziraphale...sweet angelic Aziraphale, held him now. Held him, protected him, warmed him. Nothing was an act with the angel, everything was so utterly and furiously genuine. Aziraphale was doing this not simply as an act of goodness...he was doing this  _ for him _ . 

He didn’t deserve this (He slowly wrapped his arms around him). He didn’t deserve this (He clung tighter to the angel’s back). He didn’t deserve this (A slight choking noise erupted from his throat). He didn’t deserve this. 

“Crowley, you’re--” Aziraphale didn’t finish his sentence. Crowley already knew. A stray tear streamed from his left eye, and somehow made it past the safety of his glasses. It felt warm when it formed, but as it lingered it grew colder and colder. 

“Happens sometimes...when m’cold,” he lied. Aziraphale unhooked one arm from around him, taking his thumb to wipe the wetness from Crowley’s face. It was disgustingly intimate, the demon could almost cry again. This soft touch, reserved for people who needed it....no, who were good enough for it. Crowley wasn’t good enough. He was a demon, there was no good left in him. 

“Well...we shouldn’t keep them there. They’ll freeze your face,” Aziraphale stated with a soft smile. Crowley closed his eyes, he couldn’t look at that smile, he couldn’t feel that thumb still pressed against his cheek.  _ Please I can’t bear this, please.  _

He buried his face into Aziraphale’s chest, trying to hide the emotions he was wrestling with. He wanted, oh how he wanted this. To feel the angel’s warmth envelop him, to feel his arms around him, to take in the scent of old books and milk tea. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted...but that’s why he couldn’t have it. 

He didn’t deserve this. 

“M’okay now, angel...you don’t have to stay.”  _ Please stay. Please leave. I can’t bear this. I can’t bear without it.  _

“Are you certain?”  _ No. Yes. Please.  _

“Yeah that...that was a good start to it. Can take it from here...after a good nap.”  _ Don’t take your arms away, put them back. No, don’t, I can’t feel that warmth, I shouldn’t feel that warmth.  _

“Just...try not to sleep for a decade this time.”  _ Don’t get up. Leave me like this. Let me sleep. Don’t leave me alone.  _

“Wake me up when summer’s here, yeah?”  _ Walk away, don’t look at me, don’t touch me.  _ ** _Don’t leave me alone. _ **

“I make no promises,” Aziraphale said softly. “You can rest...now that I know you’re not in imminent threat of discorporation. Do you want something warm to drink?” Crowley shook his head. “I’ll leave you to it then, check on the other men and such.” 

** _Don’t leave me alone. _ **

“Crowley?” The demon tilted his head to the side, questioning. “Don’t...don’t feel as if you can’t ask me for help. Alright?” A nod. Unlike Aziraphale, he could act. Almost nothing about  _ him  _ was genuine. “Alright. Dobray nochee.” And the angel turned, stepping swiftly away towards the light of the stoves. 

Crowley had never felt so cold. 

**Author's Note:**

> Translations   
Vot. Voda teplaya--Here. Warm water.   
Kak ty, angel?--How are you, angel? (said informally)   
Khorosho. Kak dela?--Fine. How are you? (said more formally than Crowley)   
Poka ne rodila--Everything’s okay. (lit. I have not given birth yet)   
Pozhaluysta, gospoda--Please, sirs   
Budet i na nashey ulitse prazdnik.--Our time will come   
B’yushkee byu--A bastardized version of bayushkee bayu meaning “night-night”   
Dobray nochee--Good night (formal) 
> 
> oof this took a turn but oh well here are some notes   
1\. the title of this fic is taken from one of the Six Romances, Op. 63 by Tchaikovsky. I listened to a lot of him and Chesnokov to get into the russian mood lol. it's even worse when you look at the lyrics as the last stanza is:   
Your blue eyes  
Looked down:  
Silent conversations  
Said more than words.  
What I did not dare to tell you,  
What you hid in your heart,  
All that was told for us  
By the nightingale’s song.
> 
> it's practically perfect   
2\. I do not know russian AT ALL so I am sorry in advance for any mistakes I have made. I also put it in the latin alphabet to make it a bit easier to read   
3\. Siberia was where people were sent into exile, often people who rebelled against the czar or had differing political beliefs (a lot of Polish people and Ukranian people are well). Nerchinsky Zavod was a mining town that soon became a labor camp for these prisoners to mine silver at. I read that in those freezing winter months, these men would take their beds and move them to the hallways where the stoves were as it was warmer than staying in their cells (hence why all the stoves were taken in the fic).   
4\. idk why I chose Siberia I think it was mostly because it was cold lol 
> 
> thank u for reading another projection fic by me it's been real my dudes maybe I'll write something happy eventually


End file.
